


Well I can dance with you honey

by NotUlysses



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Mostly Pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 10:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotUlysses/pseuds/NotUlysses
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young centre, thrust suddenly into the 1C role, will probably suck at faceoffs.  Luckily, Dubi knows a trick or two.Really, this is just faceoff practice as an excuse for porn.





	Well I can dance with you honey

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Does your Mother Know” because Jay is hilarious. You should blame him and Lily for enabling this. 
> 
> Warning for extreme inaccuracy when it comes to a) managing an orbital fracture and b) actually practising faceoffs.

“You need to practice your faceoffs."

The time stamp on the message indicates that it was sent sometime in the second period. Luc had had a particularly embarrassing sequence of losses in the middle of that period, so yes, Dubi, he _knows_. It was so bad that Lars had banned him from asking questions about his performance on the bench, telling him that it could wait until a video session next practice.

So he rolls his eyes and ignores the message. Maybe it’s not polite, but he doesn’t want to get into it tonight.

His phone buzzes again when they’re all out at dinner. This time, it’s a date and time (their next off day) and what Luc presumes is Dubi’s address.

He shows it to Savvy, because he’d been warned when he made the team that it was best to run any Brandon Dubinsky-created plans by one of the other vets first.

(“It’s not that he _tries_ to corrupt rookies,” Cam had said, earnestly, “it’s more that sometimes he forgets that he’s not a rookie and is meant to be the responsible one.”)

Savvy doesn’t see any reason to be sceptical, though. In fact, he thinks it’s a brilliant idea.

“Dubi’s one of our better faceoff guys, and he’s been injured, and not around the team every day, and that must be hard for him. Helping you might help him.”

Jack mutters something about “using the rookie to burn off excess energy” and Savvy shoves him. Luc takes a quick sip of his drink, and tries not to wonder why Jack had looked so amused.

Probably it’s just that they like comparing Dubi’s energy levels to the younger guys.

Anyway, Luc is still smarting from the frustration of the losses, and Dubi is offering to help. It’d be rude not to accept.

\--

 

Either being on IR has screwed with Dubi’s time perception, or he is way more of a morning person than Luc is on off days, because it feels so early when Luc gets ready to drive out to Dubi’s place.

Or possibly Luc’s just grumpy that Dubi can’t live in the Arena District like the rest of the unmarried guys, and he has to drive all the way out to some part of Columbus that he doesn’t know.

Well, he knows it a bit, actually, because Dubi’s house backs up onto a _golf course_ , which Luc recognises it as the one where the Jackets have their golf day. He’d been glued to his phone when Savvy had driven them here, but it is vaguely familiar.

And Luc can’t miss Dubi’s house when he gets to it, because it’s _ridiculous_. It’s huge, on an even more huge block of land, and it is… literally the most Brandon Dubinsky house he’s ever seen. For a start, the driveway is long and circular, with a separate entry and exit, and wide enough that there are trees planted in the middle. The outside of the house is not old, exactly, but like it was built to look like it was classic or something. There are _columns_ at the entrance.

Luc thought the outside of the house was over the top, but it’s nothing compared to what confronts him when Dubi opens the front door. There’s a giant foyer, dominated by a double-sided grand staircase that’s entirely encased in some kind of black-brown wood.

It looks expensive, and it’s a little bit suffocating. Like whoever had designed it had really wanted to impose their personality on the house.

Dubi leads him through a living room, two dining rooms and the kitchen, all mostly decorated in the same dark wood style.

“I’ve got space set up for this in the basement,” Dubi says, opening a door on the far side of the kitchen.

Luc’s entire two-bedroom apartment could fit in Dubi’s “basement”. He looks around him, a little wide-eyed with awe. There’s an honest-to-god indoor swimming pool, and a golf driving range, as well as an area of smooth floor where there’s a faceoff circle painted and a bunch of pucks, which is where Dubi leads him, grinning.  

“it’s not going to be exact, unfortunately.” Dubi is saying, “your centre of gravity is a bit different, since you’re not on skates. But we can work on a lot of the basics and then I’ll take you out on the ice once the trainers let me do stuff that includes actual contact with other players again.”

Luc nods, then frowns, “wait, will we get into trouble if the team finds out about this?”

Dubi grins at him, conspiratorially, “listen… just don’t punch me and we’ll probably be fine.”

Luc has a quick temper sometimes, but he’s never punched a teammate before, so hopefully they’ll be fine.

“How does this even work?” Luc asks, “we don’t have anyone to drop the puck.”

Dubi gestures to a box on the wall. “Did you know, if you pay someone enough money, they can make a machine to do that for you?”

Of course Brandon Dubinsky would have a puck dropping machine in his stupid, over the top house. _Of course_.

“Although, we’re not going to do that first. I want to check your fundamentals.”

Luc ends up standing on his side of the faceoff dot, set in position, while Dubi circles him, offering critique. It shouldn’t be that bad, except Luc starts to ache after while, and Dubi is being picky and isn’t relenting until Luc is exactly how he wants him _._ “Hands further apart. Closer together. Left hand up more.” Luc frowns, trying to focus on what Dubi wants, and… well, Dubi has no concept of personal space. Luc knows this, has shared a locker room with him, so it shouldn’t be so much of a surprise when he grabs Luc from behind and moves his hands to be better positioned on his stick.

Once Dubi steps away, Luc relaxes, hoping it’s over, but Dubi isn’t done. He keeps circling Luc, this time critiquing his legs. At one point, when Luc doesn’t quite slide his right foot exactly where Dubi wants, he sighs. Luc is expecting that he’ll start grabbing Luc’s legs like he did his hands, is braced and prepared for that, but instead, Dubi picks up his stick.

He uses the stick to tap at Luc’s legs until they’re in the right spot straddling the hash marks. He’s careful not to hit him too hard, or to spear him or anything, but some of the taps _sting,_ since Luc isn’t wearing padding. It’s only Luc’s inherent sense of dignity that keeps him from whining.

(Also the attention feels kind of nice. Dubi’s rough affection is something he’s missed. He hasn’t been put into a headlock and had his hair messed with “just because I can” for _weeks_ now.)

Eventually, Dubi is satisfied. He taps his stick on the ground and says, “okay, next exercise.”

Luc’s just grateful he’s now able to move. He looks at the pucks, but Dubi just grins evilly and whacks at his ankle with the stick. Bastard.

“Not yet.”

Apparently, the next step is working on tying Dubi up. “You’ll have noticed a lot of wins aren’t clean. Let Andy and Bread do the work of collecting the puck. Just concentrate on making sure the other centre can’t help.”

Luc nods. That does make sense, and it’s something he’s talked about with the coaches, so practising it would probably be a good idea.

Dubi holds up his phone, “the timer will start with a count of three. After that, if I get to your side of the circle before the next beep, I win. If I don’t, you do,” he grins again, “loser resets the timer after each round.”

He sets the phone down on the ground, well away from the faceoff circle. Luc loses the first one, because Dubi is way more prepared than he is. And the second. And the third. And the fourth. He’s beginning to get exhausted from resetting the timer and getting back and set in time. He wins the fifth, keeping Dubi out of his side, but Dubi just points to the timer and tells him it didn’t count because Luc hadn’t been set properly to begin with. _Fuck._

Luc loses the sixth, in part because he’s trying to avoid hitting Dubi in the face, cautious of the fact that they’re not technically meant to be doing this.

Dubi must have figured out that was his problem, because he holds up his hands for a timeout. Luc’s just grateful for the chance to take a breath. 

“For fuck's sake, they’ll blame me. I’m meant to be older and more responsible,” Dubi says, looking at Luc seriously.

Luc is skeptical, but he nods and, groaning, goes to reset the timer.

The next faceoff, Dubi steps right into his space, drops his stick, and kisses him. Luc is momentarily shocked, but then he kisses back, because seriously, if this is the way Dubi wants to play, well, he can play that way, too. It’s an aggressive kiss, and Luc shouldn’t be so surprised about that, since it’s obvious that Dubi doesn’t do things in half-measures.

Dubi steps back when the timer goes off, and smirks at Luc. “See, the face is fine,” he says. “So, no more excuses. Not if you want to win one of these. Also, timer.”

“That’s cheating,” Luc points out.

“Everyone cheats.”

“Yeah, but not everyone makes out with their opponent at _centre ice_.”

Dubi grins wolfishly at him, “practice should be harder than the game.”

Luc groans, but he sets the timer again, because fuck you Dubi.

It takes him several more tries, but he finally beats Dubi. Legitimately enough that even Dubi can’t claim a technical reason why he didn’t.

“Timer,” he says, more than a little bit gleefully. _Finally._

Dubi just laughs, “oh, it’s over now. Next drill.”

Luc stares at him, “wait, were you just calling all those technicalities so you didn’t have to reset the timer?”

Dubi laughs at him, “you’re younger and fresher than I am”.

“Fuck you,” Luc mutters, but without much heat. He really should’ve expected this from Dubi.

“Pay it forward to another rookie one day,” Dubi suggests, “now, next drill”.

Luc rolls his eyes, “so, are we going to do actual faceoffs at some point?”

“Well, I could get you to sweep my floor, like in all those kids Karate movies.”

Luc shoves him, because really _,_ Dubi. Dubi doesn’t seem to mind, just shoves him back. Slightly harder, because, well. Dubi.

“And, yes, this is for real now. _Actual_ faceoffs,” Dubi pauses, dramatically, and Luc does his best to not reward his behaviour by reacting. It fails, because his stomach flutters with the thrill of getting attention from a veteran player and his stupid face can’t help but grin.

“Your goal is to win ten faceoffs against me. No time limit, we’ll take however long it takes.”

Luc nods. Given what he knows from today already, that’s going to be hard _._ Dubi has shown a terrible propensity for cheating already. At least at some point he’ll have to let him leave to get to practice tomorrow, right?

Dubi is still talking, and Luc realises that he’d better pay attention, just in case there’s some bullshit condition about what constitutes winning.

“Also, since rewards are an awesome motivator, once you win ten, I’ll give you a blowjob.”

Luc blinks. Did he hear that right? He looks at Dubi, trying to gauge how serious he is. It’s hard. On one hand, Dubi did make out with him during the tying up practice. On the other hand: a blowjob? For winning ten faceoffs? And there’s no time limit?

It sounds too good to be true, but… Luc shifts, because the mere thought is enough to make him start getting hard. He eventually decides that it doesn’t matter if Dubi’s serious, or if he’s just trying to distract Luc and throw him off his game, because he’ll still get the satisfaction of beating him ten times, which is worth it.

(He _really_ hopes Dubi is serious.)

“Right.” he says, game face on.

It’s not easy. Dubi is exacting about what he considers to be a win, and he also cheats, unashamedly. “Everyone cheats,” Dubi repeats himself from the earlier drill, “so you might as well practice it as well.”

Luc’s also pretty distracted, because every movement seems to emphasise just how turned on he is. Dubi seems to be aware of this, and there’s a lot more incidental contact than can plausibly be explained by ‘aggression’ or ‘just practice’.

For example: at one point Dubi grinds himself into him, turns his hip, and very casually brushes Luc’s dick. Which, Luc’s young. A stiff breeze can get him hard. Spending time with an important member of the team can almost get him hard, as embarrassing as it would be to admit it.

Having an important member of the team promise to suck you off, and then deliberately flirt with you? Fuck. That is definitely hard, pun fully intended.

When Luc finally wins his seventh, after more attempts than he cares to think about, Dubi puts down his stick and calls for a timeout. Luc is grateful for the breather.

“Seventh faceoff stretch,” Dubi says, chucking Luc a bottle of gatorade. He gulps it down. _Christ_ , this is hard.

Once he’s finished, he prepares to get set again. Dubi hasn’t picked up his stick, however, and he steps into Luc’s space, grabs his face and kisses him again, aggressive enough that Luc’s stick clutters to the floor.

And then Dubi slips a hand down to fondle his dick through his pants, before stepping away. Luc’s hips buck to try to chase the contact, but Dubi isn’t giving him anymore, and he just picks up his stick, cool as a cucumber, and resets the puck machine.

 _“Fuck,”_ Luc squats down to pick up his stick. He has to get ready or else Dubi will start without him. If Dubi gets tired of playing hockey, he might have a career as a linesman awaiting him.

“Just a little incentive to get the next three,” Dubi smirks.

Fuck, it’s _cruel_. Luc is impossibly hard now. It’s so distracting. But he doesn’t want to let horniness (and Dubi) defeat him. If he can win now, he’ll have no problem winning when he’s not desperateor someone’s mouth on his dick.

It takes him another 15 faceoffs to win the last 3. It’s a terrible percentage, but the challenge wasn’t about the percentage. It was just getting to ten, so he’s won. He beams at Dubi when he wins the last, triumphant.

Dubi grins back at him, and sinks to his knees right there on the spot, answering any lingering doubts Luc has whether the blowjob promise was legitimate.

“Shit, right now?”

“I keep my promises,” Dubi says, seriously.

Apparently, he does, because his hands are at Luc’s waistband, and he’s tugging his pants and underwear down, leaving them tangled just above his knees.

Fuck, an actual NHL vet is actually going to give him a blowjob. it’s almost enough to make him come right there.

it’s only the thought that Dubi will tease him for days that keeps him from doing so.

Also, fuck, he earned that blowjob, he deserves it.

Dubi is obviously well practised. He gives head like he plays hockey, aggressive and in your face (uh, dick?) and a little bit edgy.

Luc appreciates it. Fuck, it’s nice to be treated gently, sure, but it’s also nice that Dubi’s affectionate locker room roughhousing translates to how he has sex.

It doesn’t take long for Luc to come, but it’s a respectable enough amount of time, given how hard he was before they even started.

He sinks to the ground after, sitting on the cool, hard concrete floor of Dubi’s basement. He’s breathless and overwhelmed, and, fuck. He looks at Dubi, wonders if he'd like it if Luc offers to pay him back. 

“Do you want--?” Luc makes a suggestive gesture, then makes a face. Maybe he should be more eloquent.

Or maybe not, since Dubi seems to get his meaning.

“Do you want to?” Dubi asks, “this was your reward, not mine.”

“Yes,” Luc says, determined.

Dubi looks thoughtful.

“You know, if you really want to, you’ll win another 10 faceoffs.”

Luc scrambles to get to his feet. Right, he can do that.

Dubi laughs. It’s not an unkind laugh, more like he thinks Luc is delightful.

“I was kidding, you know,” he says, reaching out his hand to grab Luc’s wrist.

Luc feels his face redden, “Oh.”

Dubi grins up at him. “Hey, at least you’re eager.”

“I want to improve,” Luc points out, and yeah, he does. He’s, like, one of only two actual centres on the team right now, him improving his game could literally save their season.

Dubi must be able to read the look on his face, because he’s suddenly serious, “Listen, there’s a lot of guys on the team, okay? And Wenny and me’ll be back soon, just… hold the fort, okay? You don’t have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Luc nods. He knows that, but.

“I want to improve.”

Dubi laughs, “God, you’ll become Torts’s pet in no time with that attitude, kid.”

Luc flushes again. He’s not like this just to suck up to the coaches, he just… genuinely wants to get better.

Once again, Dubi seems to know what he’s thinking, because he grins at him again “don’t worry so much, I’d have done a lot better earlier in my career if I was a bit more like you and a bit less like me.”

Luc frowns a bit, and shrugs. Dubi reaches out to ruffle his hair.

“Lars banned me from asking for advice after my shifts last game,” Luc admits.

Dubi laughs.

“See, this is why you’re our best rookie. Well, best rookie now that Z isn’t a rookie.”

Luc’s face is red, but he can’t stop grinning. Fuck, Dubi’s approval means a lot. Dubi’s kind of a big deal on the team.

Dubi seems to know what he’s thinking. “Yes, we like you. I don’t give up my days to practice faceoffs with just anyone, you know.”

Luc nods, but… he still feels like he needs to do more. To be more.

Dubi must recognise this, because “do you want to try to win five?” he suggests.

Luc nods. It should only take him half the time to win five, right?

Actually, it takes slightly less. Apparently, getting blown is a motivator for Dubi. Or, more accurately, a distraction. And hey, after Dubi had shamelessly distracted him during the previous set, it’s more than fair if Luc returns the favour.

“Maybe I should just offer to blow all my opponents,” he teases as he drops down to his knees after he wins his fifth.

“You are not going to offer to give Sidney Crosby a blowjob if he lets you win,” Dubi says. “He’s a Penguin, that’s just gross.”

“What about non-Penguins?” Luc checks.

Dubi messes up his hair. Aggressively. “Shut up. You’re _our_ rookie. Other teams don’t get to have you,” he whines.

Luc laughs.

He takes a deep breath, licks his lips. Draws it out, to make Dubi wild with anticipation. It doesn’t take much — Brandon Dubinsky is not known for his patience, and soon enough, he’s threading his hand into Luc’s hair and trying to encourage him to go faster.

Luc takes his time, though, uses his tongue and hand to drive him wild. And then he takes him. All the way, because while everyone thinks he’s young and inexperienced, he’d picked up some tricks along the way.

He’s actually quite proud of his ability to give head. It never got mentioned in the scouting reports, but fuck, it’s a talent just like playing hockey.

Dubi is the one who ends up boneless on the ground this time, and Luc sinks down next to him, exhausted from the effort and the practice.

“Damn, I was in the wrong league,” Dubi muses, shell-shocked.  

Luc laughs, “I don’t think it’s a Q thing. Some of the team Canada guys were pretty good. Maybe your draft year were just less talented or something.”

Dubi whacks him hard in the arm, but it’s _worth it._

“So, anyway, next exercise,” Dubi says, moving into a sitting position.

Luc groans.

He knows that if he tries to suggest they’ll do something else, Dubi will accuse him of trying to get out of the practice. He probably won’t be serious, but… it’ll still be galling, and that’s enough to get Luc to want to get to his feet.

“Oh, okay, what’s next?” Luc grumbles. He’s tired and kind of hungry, but fuck if he’s going to let Brandon Dubinsky outlast him at anything.

Dubi looks at him, again, and says “we really need to work on your ability to detect when I’m messing with you. It’s tragically under-developed.”

Luc stares at him, confused.

“Our next exercise,” Dubi says, slow and solemn, “is lunch.”

Oh. That makes sense.

“You mean you’ll feed me?”

“I know how to treat guests. I wasn’t raised by _wolves_ ,” Dubi says, slightly insulted.

“Of course not. You’re from Alaska. If you were raised by anything it was bears.”

“Fuck, I give you one blowjob and you get mouthy.”

Luc laughs, “a few minutes ago you were enjoying my mouthiness.”

The good thing about all the practice Dubi has put him through today is that Luc is able to read his movements, recognise the impending headlock and sidestep it. He grins, triumphant. Dubi looks...  impressed.

“Guess you learnt something today after all?”

“Yes,” Luc says, dryly, “if the NHL starts tracking the ‘avoiding Brandon Dubinsky’s roughhousing’ stat I’m a shoo-in for 1st in the NHL in something”.

Dubi _moves_ again, and this time, when Luc anticipates, he ducks under Dubi’s arms, grabbing his waist, not worried about being gentle, and kisses him. Dubi kisses back, not willing to let Luc take full control, and they enjoy it for a moment, until Luc pulls back, and breathes “you said something about lunch?”

Admittedly, it’s not the most romantic line, but give him a break, he’s worked _hard_ today.

Pun _still_ intended.


End file.
